


Saint

by xstarxchaserx



Series: Vices and Virtues [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fingering, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Oral Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-04 20:58:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1793020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xstarxchaserx/pseuds/xstarxchaserx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a companion story to the first piece of the Vices and Virtues series, Sinner. This time, the story is told from John Watson's perspective utilizing the Heavenly Virtues. John quickly finds that it's not always easy holding on to his virtue, especially not when you live with the pure embodiment of the Seven Deadly Sins. And when someone comes along who proves to be a match for the great consulting detective, John wonders just how likely it is that they'll both end up burned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Humility

**Author's Note:**

> I had posted the first few chapters to this story a long time ago, but I ended up hating it and scrapping the whole thing and it was just... it was a mess. So here it is, the start of the long awaited second piece to the Vices and Virtues series. I hope you all enjoy it. 
> 
> As always, find me on tumblr. xstarxchaserx.tumblr.com
> 
> \- Destiny

John Watson was a very unassuming man. 

He dressed himself in utilitarian clothing. Jumpers, button ups, trousers that suited almost any day to day situation and allowed him ease and freedom of movement. He was short, stocky, tanned from his time he spent in the desert. The neutral tones of his clothes washed him out and made him seem insignificant. People looked past him, through him, and if they noticed him at all, it was because of his limp and the cane he carried like a shield. It was his civilian camouflage.

Because, that’s what he was now, of course. A civilian. There was a hole in his shoulder and a set of dog tags gathering dust in a box shoved under the bed of his efficiency flat, right alongside the ‘honorable discharge’ papers. As though there was anything _honorable_ about being discharged.

No, he preferred to be glanced over. It was better than having people paying attention to him, reminding him exactly what he was now. No longer the soldier. No longer the surgeon. No longer a hero. He was quite happy walking through the world as a ghost.

So when someone called out his name in the park on his way back from his bi-weekly meeting with his therapist, he was completely caught off guard. He did not like being caught off guard.

That’s probably why Mike was able to talk him into visiting the old lab at St. Bart’s. They had studied together there, before John enlisted, and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t remotely curious as to what the lab was like these days. As far as the flat mate went, there was no way he was going to shack up with a man who looked like he stepped out of an Armani ad with the ego to match. Asking to borrow someone’s phone simply because he preferred to text? He was obvious, boring, probably a total arse-.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

It must have been the thing to do that day, catching John off guard, but the terrifyingly precise dissection that followed is what truly unnerved him. He was not supposed to stand out. He was not supposed to be noticed. No one was supposed to know about his therapist or the fact that his limp was psychosomatic or- Christ- about _Harry_. 

But there was this stranger, pulling him apart and bringing him down to his base components and it was absolutely fucking terrifying. 

Contrary to what others would go on to think, John was not crazy about the thought of sharing a flat with a madman. A quick internet search of the man didn’t soothe his nerves in the slightest. Cigarette ash? What did that have to do with anything? And what kind of codswallop was a ‘consulting detective?’ Surely the man couldn’t be serious.

Oh, but he was. No sooner had John settled into the beat up old chair, taking a proper look at the disaster of a living room that was probably only a preview of what it would be like to live with Sherlock Holmes, were there police lights dancing across the ceiling. A detective came bounding up the stairs. 

"What's different about this one?"

"She left a note."

"Text me the address."

Three sentences, and he was gone. Sherlock was dancing around the living room, miraculously managing to avoid the clutter that was everywhere, before pulling on the coat that had no right making him look as good as it did, whipping on the scarf that matched one of the various shades his eyes decided to take on, and he was gone as well, leaving John alone. Which was fine, of course. He didn’t need to be caught up in whatever insanity was taking place surrounding these suicides. He didn’t do things like that anymore. He wasn’t a soldier anymore. What good would he be at a crime scene, anyway? No, he would sit, have a nice cuppa, maybe some biscuits if Mrs. Hudson was up to it, then probably leave and never come back because Sherlock Holmes was just a little too volatile to be around on a consistent basis. John’s therapist would never approve of him being around that sort of violence again.

But, “Oh, God yes,” he had missed it.

This time, since he was slightly more prepared for the maelstrom that is Sherlock Holmes, the rapid fire deductions didn’t catch him off guard. It was rather amusing seeing how offended he was when one of his deductions was proven wrong, and John filed that away for future reference. At the crime scene itself, though, all thoughts of how to torment his potential flatmate’s pride went out the window. There was a building full of police officers, a woman lying dead on the floor, and he could see the slow dawning of disappointment on Sherlock’s face as he didn’t live up to the detective’s expectations with his own deductions about the corpse. Sherlock seemed to take great pleasure in reminding everyone in the room that they were imbeciles compared to him and John found himself wanting to punch the man squarely in the jaw. 

He was almost as surprised as the detective when he said, “That’s fantastic.”

“Do you know you do that out loud?”

“Sorry,” John replied, ducking his suddenly flushed face. His subconscious was out to get him. “I’ll just shut up then…”

“No… It’s fine.”

John was quite certain that the detective was laughing at him, but there wasn’t much that could be done for that. He thought that he could, just possibly, handle this. 

Then he was kidnapped and offered what probably would have been a large sum of money to spy on Sherlock by a man in a three piece suit with the most _intimidating_ umbrella John had ever seen. When he arrived back at Baker Street to find Sherlock on the couch with three nicotine patches on his arm, he rethought the bribe and the gun tucked into his jeans. Then he was sending a text message to a murderer who was not Sherlock even though the man had the pink case right there. He felt vaguely that they should contact the police, but where was the fun in that?

But perhaps calling the police would have kept him away from Angelo’s and the candlelight that made him contemplate things that he hadn’t thought about since he was in university. And that one time in Afghanistan. Alright, those _four_ times in Afghanistan. Not that it mattered because Sherlock Holmes was married to his work and who the fuck would be interested in someone like John, anyway? 

He didn’t have long to dwell on it before he was tearing off after Sherlock and a taxi cab that the detective was convinced carried the murderer. When it turned out to be a tourist, they were running away for a different reason. Apparently impersonating a Detective Inspector was a no-no. 

The breathless laughter that had been bubbling out of him moments earlier died in his throat when his cane was returned. The smile on Sherlock’s face was triumphant, and John became perfectly aware that he was going to take the second bedroom just for the off chance he’d get to see that smile again. 

Then there was the drugs bust and John found himself wondering if he was going to see Sherlock passed out on the floor, tourniquet still wrapped around his arm, skin cold, far too cold, like the night time in Afghanistan. No one ever mentions how cold deserts get. No one ever mentions that the most brilliant people tend to do the stupidest things. 

“Shut up! Everyone, just shut up!”

Then Sherlock was leaving again, leaving without him. Well, that was just fine. John was having trouble breathing being in the same room with Sherlock anyway, too many visions of other people he had grown close to lying cold and dead on the ground overlaying everything. Perhaps space was good. Perhaps alone was even better. He could head back to his flat, perhaps leave a note for Sherlock. Chalk it up to a strange day and nothing more.

The GPS alert let out a little beep from the computer. Curiosity won out, and John went to check where the phone had moved to since it obviously wasn’t actually in Baker Street. Perhaps there was a program or something on it that scrambled its location? But this time, it was moving, not stationary. 

Hadn’t Mrs. Hudson said something about a taxi?

****  
Yes, John Watson is the paradigm of humility. He was unassuming, insignificant, and so fucking tired of sitting in his therapist’s office while she told him that he was traumatized by the war. 

His legs hurt. His lungs hurt. His heart was racing, fit to burst, but still he kept running. He had to find Sherlock. He cleared room after room, couldn’t help but compare them to clearing buildings in Afghanistan, looking for the wounded. Looking for casualties.

He was so fucking sick of finding casualties.

So when he got to that room and saw Sherlock across from him, in the other building, with what could only be the poison hovering an inch from his lips, he decided it was time to create a casualty. 

As his finger depressed the trigger, all he could think was the man with the umbrella had been right. He had missed it.

He also knew that he should get right the fuck out of there because, while his flat mate was most certainly insane, murder can be quite the touchy subject.

Not that he was able to keep Sherlock in the dark. No, of course not. 

But then they were laughing _at a crime scene_ , and the man with the umbrella turned out to be Sherlock’s brother and John wasn’t surprised in the least bit. He got his gun back, had rather delicious dim sum, and headed back to Baker Street.

Back to their flat.

For the first time in a very, very long time, John Watson felt happy to be alive.


	2. Kindness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd apologize for how long this chapter took me to get out there, but I think we've already established that I'm shit at updating on a regular schedule.
> 
> In other news, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and- as always- you can find me on tumblr. 
> 
> xstarxchaserx.tumblr.com

Two month later, John still remembered what it was like waking up at Baker Street the morning after chasing a serial killer through London before Sherlock became his next victim. 

There were body parts in the fridge and the bread seemed like it was coming alive, so he had set himself up at the kitchen table with some tea while he field stripped and cleaned every inch of the gun he had used to kill the cabbie. He thought perhaps he should feel bad, that some of the guilt should be creeping up on him, especially after the night filled with old nightmares of bullets and blood and bodies littering the street with the added horror of his new flatmate being one of them… No, he did the right thing. He wasn’t always a wise man and he wasn’t always a nice man, but he was a good one. He would always have that, right?

Well, when he saw the look in Sherlock’s eye as he watched the gun cleaning process, he considered changing that. No one had the right to look that good with bed head and pillow creases on their face.

“I made a pot of tea. There’s plenty there for you to have a cup or two as well.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said after making a show of not taking a deep breath.

“And I tried to find something for breakfast, but there were fingers where the butter’s usually kept and the bread looks like it may as well be an experiment of yours at this point. I wanted to wait until you were up before I headed out to Tesco to pick up some things. Anything specific you want?”

“Doesn’t matter. I hardly eat.”

“I know. Just figured I’d ask.”

John decided it would be a game, trying to catch Sherlock off guard, if only to see that look on his face.

“No lecture about proper eating habits, then?”

“I’ve known you for two days. Would you honestly listen to me?”

The light hum acted as confirmation, and John watched Sherlock watching him as he clicked the slide of his gun back into place.

“How often did you have to use a gun while you were in Afghanistan?”

“Often enough.”

“Often enough to lead to you having night terrors? Or are they just from when you were shot?”

There was a faint shadow that crossed John’s vision. He could hear the screams, feel the sand being blown into his face. _Captain Watson! You need to save me!_ He hadn’t been able to, of course. Not everyone got saved. Not everyone made it out of there. Best not think of that, though. Repacking the cleaning kit and apologizing was far, far less traumatic. 

“With a psychosomatic limp and a therapist who claimed you had PTSD, you were bound to come with night terrors.”

John nodded, standing and cleaning up before moving his gun up to his room. Despite his best efforts, he was sure Sherlock knew that it was tucked into his waistband while he went out to do the shopping and gather up the small amount of possessions he had in his old apartment. 

They fell into a pleasant rhythm, John working at the clinic, skipping off early to accompany Sherlock on cases. They would arrive back at 221B at some ungodly hour of the night with take out, breathless with the thrill of the chase and the satisfaction of a case well solved. 

(And more, but since that first night at Angelo’s, John had become adept at ignoring the more.)

It was a good feeling, showing up to crime scenes and seeing the gradual acceptance come over the people from the Yard. Donovan still shot insults and Anderson was still a pompous arse, but it became familiar. 

Greg, though, quickly turned into a friend. They shared so many interests- from cars to women and sports, even the same type of whiskey. Over time, John learned that his own deductions would always be wrong, so while Sherlock was trapped in the sensory overload of the crime scene, John took to passing the time chatting with the DI. Their conversation changed from innocent topics to deeper ones, like Greg’s divorce. 

“John, come here,” Sherlock called, interrupting one of their discussions.

“Sherlock, I know it’s not important. You’re just going to tell me I’m wrong anyway, so let me finish up this chat. Just a minute or two, yeah?” John said and turned back to Greg. “I know things are rough right now, mate. Is there anything-?”

“John.” It was a whine, pure and simple. Sherlock was whining to get his attention, and John was determined to ignore him. “John,” there was less whine that time, and it occurred to John that Sherlock wouldn’t stop any time soon.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Sherlock,” John said with a sharp glare before turning back to Greg. “Tomorrow night, we’ll meet at the pub, yeah? I know tonight’s going to be all this case, but tomorrow we can sit and talk. I’ll buy you a pint.”

“Thanks, mate. I appreciate it. Go see what he wants.”

John rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt before going over to Sherlock.

"What are your thoughts on the way she was bound?"

"Her own stockings. Not unusual. No defensive wounds, though, so how would he have gotten them off of her...? They don't seem to be torn or anything... Perhaps he grabbed them out of her dresser? But no... She’s dressed in work attire, but it's a dress so she would have felt it necessary to wear stockings..."

Distracted as he was by the body, John missed the open mouthed look of shock on Sherlock’s face as he continued.

"This is the only one like this, right? We're just here because she's a high profile victim, right?" Greg nodded in response to John's question. "It was her boyfriend then, or her lover. One or the other because I'm pretty sure she's trailing along two blokes. Started out as consensual, got aggressive. Lover could have asked her to leave the boyfriend and she refused. Or the boyfriend could have taken advantage of the situation-. No. Time of death. Just a few hours ago. Lover then, while the boyfriend was still at work."

He looked up at Sherlock. "So, how wrong was I?"

Sherlock didn't speak.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?"

"You weren't wrong."

"About anything?"

"Correct."

"Really?"

"Don't make me repeat myself, John, it's dull.”

Sherlock set off explaining all the little nuances of the evidence that proves the theory. In just a few minutes, he had gone through the victim’s contact list and found the lover. Greg gave the orders to some of his men to go round him up, the coroner took over the scene, and everyone who was unessential to the rest of the process started filing out.

John walked over to Greg where he was finishing with some of his men. “Well, mate, looks like we can go to the pub tonight if you’d like. Nothing left to do here. Open and shut.”

“Sure, yeah. Once the arrest comes through, I’ll be about an hour with the paper work. Say Sullivan’s at 7:00?”

“Great. I’m already looking forward to the crisps.”

“Thanks. I do appreciate this. I don’t wanna be drinking alone. That’s just not a good road to start down.” 

John felt the swell of affection for the DI, but stifled it like a proper Brit. “Anytime, Greg. Well, Sherlock, are you coming? We should clear out so they can finish up here.”

Sherlock is quiet, quieter than usual, until they climb into a taxi. 

“We always get take away after a case ends.”

“Oh. Sorry. Greg’s going through a bit of a rough time-.”

"First name basis with him already? I don't even call him Greg."

"Haven't you noticed? He and I hit it off pretty well. We're just going out for a drink and some bar food. Talk, chat, watch the game. His wife's leaving him, you know. I'm just being a friend. I would have invited you along but-." John almost laughed at the look of disgust that crossed Sherlock’s face. "Precisely. So, you can handle take away without me, right? Or I can pick something up on my way back from the pub for you if you'd prefer."

"Forget about it."

"Sherlock-."

"It’s fine, John. No worries."

The silence was awkward, but John keeps himself resolute. Or tries to. Tries and fails. He can’t help glancing at Sherlock, worrying about what got into him. It wasn’t like Sherlock to care when he went out to the pub or anything like that. Perhaps the after case routine meant more to Sherlock than John had thought.

But John had promised Greg a trip to the pub and a pint on him. When he arrived at Sullivan’s slightly after 7:00, Greg was waiting outside. They shared a few pints, talking about everything. John had ordered the crisps he had so been craving at the crime scene, but had barely touched them. 

“Everything alright? You’ve hardly eaten,” Greg asked.

“Yeah. I just… I think I’ll be picking up take out on the way back to Baker Street. Sherlock was all bent out of shape when I didn’t go with him after the case was over.”

“Huh,” Greg said followed with a large sip from his pint.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. It’s just… Interesting to know that Sherlock Holmes can get jealous.”

“He’s not jealous.”

“John, you are one of like five people who have ever shown him true kindness. You’re the one who has shown him the most, if we’re all honest with each other. I love him like an annoying little brother, but I know that I would kill him if I lived with him. You called him brilliant and you _stayed._ He hasn’t had anyone like that before. He’s jealous of any time that you spend with someone other than him.”

“Christ,” John replies, draining the rest of his third drink.

Greg finishes his pint and stands, “I should get home anyway. Early day tomorrow.” He clapped John on the shoulder. “He’s going to be moping. Get him some dumplings. Let him unwind. You’ll both feel better for it.”

And that’s exactly what John did.

"I picked up Chinese on the way back. Dumplings, just like you like, and some friend rice. Figured you wouldn't have gotten anything for yourself." John saw the smile that was hesitantly pulling at Sherlock’s mouth and couldn’t help but grin for a moment himself before dropping it and adopting a mock-serious tone. "Damn it, Sherlock, move yourself over. I got myself some food too, and I'd like to be able to use the coffee table too, you know."

The man looked so happy that John couldn’t even be mad when Sherlock stole some of his lo mein.


	3. Temperance

John Watson was a very good man, or that’s how other people saw him, at least. He had managed to keep a level of restraint throughout his life that could be considered impressive, his self-control never failing. Afghanistan changed that. Not while he was there, no, because patience and self-discipline meant the difference between life and death. But when he returned to London? He kept up the guise, of course. The well-mannered, well-behaved, quiet man in the jumpers with the cane. Underneath, though, the foundation he had built for himself had cracked. It was easy for him to slip up, to let the anger show through.

It took so little to get him riled up now that he was back to civilian life which is precisely why he had to get the fuck out of 221B before he murdered Sherlock Holmes.

Three weeks without a case had brought out a side of the detective that John was not prepared for. He was used to bullet holes in the wall and experiments that made his skin crawl, even the music that sounded like something was dying at 3 AM. John could handle that.

Honestly, it was when Sherlock started acting _normal_ that John began to lose it. He would eat what John cooked, went to bed at a fairly decent hour, even watched the telly and didn’t argue when John wanted to watch a movie.

It wasn’t really the behavior that did it either. It was the fact that it was all Sherlock’s fault that he was stuck in this state and if the bastard would have just kept his _fucking mouth shut-._

“It’s just two nights, Sherlock. Two nights with Sarah.” Lovely, kind, completely sane Sarah. “I really like her, so I hope you understand. We’re not even going far, just half an hour away.”

“But I’m bored, John. I’m going crazy. I’m going to lose my mind.”

“No, you won’t. It’s too big for you to lose track of it. You’ll survive, Sherlock.”

He hoped, at least.

Sarah was waiting, already completely packed for their little weekend adventure, when John showed up at her flat.

“I was half expecting you to cancel on me, what with Sherlock and how he is right now,” she said after kissing him on the cheek.

“He’ll be alright. Even though he doesn’t act like it, he’s an adult. He can make it on his own for two nights.”

_Keep telling yourself that,_ John thought, _and maybe you’ll actually start to believe it._

He shook off the feeling of dread and carried Sarah’s bag to the cab that was waiting outside for them. The hotel they chose was a little place, nothing fancy. It was the change of scenery, not the amenities, that they had been chasing. A weekend away from work and the main body of the city would do them both some good.

They ate dinner at the quiet little restaurant tucked just around the corner, talking about the various patients at the clinic and the latest medical journals. It occurred to John that they only really shared that one common interest- medicine- to any meaningful degree. He loved action movies, she preferred comedies. He liked music from before the ‘90s, she kept the radio tuned to the modern hits channel.

She did laugh at his jokes, though, and constantly kept him engaged with questions about the cases he worked with Sherlock. She was intelligent, witty, and so very, very kind. She was a good woman, steady and familiar even though they hadn’t known each other, let along been together, for long enough to warrant it.

She was safe.

And when they went back up to their room, she stepped into the washroom to freshen up while he turned down the sheets on the bed and removed his socks and shoes. They had sex simply, efficiently, and though she seemed to be having the time of her life, John found himself thinking of how it didn’t feel any different than any of the other women he had slept with since returning to London. There was no spark, no true chemistry, nothing terribly exciting.

But that was fine, really, because John was well on his way to becoming a true adrenaline junkie and he wanted- needed- to regain some of that composure he had before the war. He wouldn’t let himself be ruled by something like that.

The afterglow was nice, with Sarah’s head tucked under his chin and his arm wrapped around her. Their bodies were still sticky with sweat, but it was good.

When his phone beeped, he knew. He knew it would be Sherlock, but there was no way he could go, no way he could leave Sarah. This could be a turning point for him. This could be the moment he got his life back under control and started chasing the dreams he used to have of a nice little house in the suburbs with a white picket fence and-.

**_I need you to come home. It’s an emergency. Please. –SH_ **

Well, shit.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Sarah said.

“I have to go, Sarah. I’m sorry. He says it’s an emergency.” He was already up and getting dressed, hunting up his other sock.

“It’s always an emergency with him.”

“This time is different. Something is definitely wrong.”

“Oh, a triple homicide instead of a plain old murder or some such thing?”

“He said please.”

“So you’re just going to go after him, then? Chasing after his every whim like some poor little puppy?”

“Christ, Sarah. You know what kind of disaster he is.”

“You said it yourself, he’s an adult. He can take care of himself.”

“He can’t, though. He really can’t. Mainly because he’s an idiot.” He finished pulling on his jacket. “I’m sorry, Sarah, but if I don’t look after him, no one will. I’ll call you, yeah?”

“Don’t bother.”

He winced but left anyway, texting Sherlock in the elevator.

**_Be there in 25. – JW_ **

The scene that awaited him at Baker Street was more than he had prepared himself for. The breath left his lungs, his body refused to work, and he wanted to scream.

More, though, he felt sadness settle on his chest like a weight.

“Sherlock...” He paused a beat while he stepped closer. “Sherlock, please, look at me.”

There were no obvious signs when Sherlock did look up at him. He cupped his face gently, turning it this way and that to be sure. Pupils were responsive, pulse spiked, but leveled out. He unbuttoned the cuffs on Sherlock’s sleeves, pulling them up to check for new marks, knowing full well there were a million other places Sherlock could have chosen to inject himself. John moved on to the items on the table, the syringe, the powder, the tourniquet. Nothing looked used, at least not recently.

He dropped on to the couch next to Sherlock and let some of the anger slip through when he spoke. “What were you thinking?”

"I was so bored, John. There's always so much noise, and when I get bored... I can't block it out. It never stops. It never goes away. Three weeks without a case, all my experiments are exhausted, and then... then you were gone too. I couldn't handle it. Everything just got so loud and I needed it to stop.”

It took John a few moments to gather his thoughts. Who was his dealer? How did he know the drugs weren’t tainted? Did he really think that he could have gotten away with this?

He spoke before he realized he was going to. “Why didn’t you follow through? Why text me?”

"I've never had someone in my life who I genuinely didn't want to disappoint until you came along. You're... you're my friend, John. If I had done this, you would have left. Sure, you would have stayed for a little while, tried to help me through it, see me through rehab, try to fix me, but it wouldn't have worked. You would have left eventually and never come back. I don't want to consider what would happen in that event."

Idiot. He was such a fucking idiot. John? Leave? How could he ever leave? It would be safe, of course. Safe and sane and probably the best thing he could do with his life if he wanted to live to see 50. He could go back to Sarah, to his dream life, and leave Sherlock Holmes and all the baggage that came with him behind.

But he was in too deep, he realized.

"Sherlock, I'm going to get rid of this, of all of this. I'm not going to mention it to Lestrade or Mycroft or anyone. This is going to be between us. But I am going to destroy every last item in that box. I am going to flush the cocaine. I am going to crack the syringe. I'm going to toss the bloody box into the fireplace. While I'm doing that, you're going to shower and put on something respectable like you usually do. Then we're going to go out to Angelo's and you're actually going to eat something. I don't care if it's just an appetizer, but you're going to eat. Then we're going to go exploring the city. There's a club not far from Angelo's that's been having a bit of a problem with street fights in the alleyway next to it. It could be dangerous.

"But before all that, you're going to promise me that the next time this happens, the next time it gets this bad, you're going to tell me, just like you did this time, though hopefully before you go and actually waste the money on the drugs. I wouldn't have gone this weekend if you had explained to me how bad you were getting. I need to be told things directly, especially when something is actually bothering you, because you are such a drama queen sometimes, I can't tell when you're being serious or not. Alright?"

John emptied the powder down the sink, broke the syringe, tossed the tourniquet, and threw the box into the fire place. Watching it go up in flames was therapy of the best sort, easing his nerves.

At Angelo’s, John watched Sherlock work through his second piece of pie, licking the spoon more than was probably necessary. John cursed- no, thanked, of course, _thanked_ \- whoever blessed him with such self-restraint.


	4. Dilligence

After The Incident, as John thought of it, he stayed home more often than usual. He knew that Sherlock knew the reasoning for it, but didn’t quite care. He was content to stay at home and read or watch telly.

Sherlock asked him one Friday night if he’d be going out with Sarah as usual, and John just shrugged. “I don’t think it’s working out between us.”

“Really? You said you really liked her.”

“Yes, well, sometimes that’s not enough.”

Sherlock still wasn’t getting any cases from the Yard and neither of their websites were bringing in cases that were even remotely interesting. John watched as Sherlock slowly ground to a halt. He stopped pacing. Stopped shooting the walls. His violin lay off to the side, gathering dust for the first time since John had moved into Baker Street. John tried to get him to do something, anything.

After 3 days of Sherlock refusing to even eat, John called Lestrade on his way to Tesco. He had to try.

"Hey, mate. What's up?"

"Listen, Greg, how much longer is the ban in place for Sherlock?"

"John..."

"Please. How much longer?"

"I honestly don't know."

"Fuck. Greg, listen, he needs something. Anything. Can you send over cold cases? I don't care how old they are. Something."

"Christ, John, is he that bad?"

"He's not doing anything."

"I didn't think he'd be back to the drugs, not with you around, if that's what you mean."

"No, I mean, he's not doing _anything._ He's shut off. He just stays on the couch. He's not playing the violin. He's not pacing. He hasn't experimented on the milk. He's even sleeping. It's... God, Greg, it's fucking terrifying to watch. I can't handle it."

"I don't know what I can do, John..."

"Please. I'm literally begging you here. I'll make it up to you somehow. We can work something out. Free medical treatment. Anything. Just, for fuck's sake, Greg, I can't handle it anymore. It makes my skin crawl to watch him just... waste away."

"I'll bring over a few files tonight."

"Oh, ta, mate. Really. Thank you so much. Whatever you can give him."

"You owe me."

"Anything."

"See you tonight."

John hung up the phone and almost skipped to finish his shopping. Perseverance pays off sometimes. Now if he could just get Sherlock to eat…

But of course, John’s cooking was interrupted. At least it was Lestrade showing up with an armful of cold cases. Sherlock was still in the same spot on the couch, staring blankly at the back of it. He had only moved to shower when John had mentioned about how his hair was getting greasy again.

The second he saw Lestrade, though, he was off the couch and begging.

“Please, for the love of all that is good in the world, tell me the ban is lifted.”

John met Lestrade’s confused look with one that simply said, ‘I told you so.’

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I don’t know how much longer the ban is going to be in place.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I said those things. Please, I need something. I need to come back. I’ll even be nice to Anderson, just please, I need to come back.”

“Sherlock-.”

“Please-.”

“Let me finish a fucking sentence, Sherlock!” Lestrade snapped making Sherlock sink back down on to the couch. “Thank you. Sherlock, I’m going to try to push it through faster. I talked to the chief today, and he’s warming back up to the idea. Until then, I brought you some cold cases to look through. I’m not sure if you’ll find anything-.”

“I’ll take them, whatever you’ve got.”

When he had the files, he was immediately absorbed leaving the other two men to themselves.

“Care to stay tonight?”

“No thanks. I’ve been heading back to the gym recently and I want to get there before it gets too late or I’ll never manage to keep up with my routine.”

“Ah, right, gotta buff up now that you’re back on the market, eh?”

"Oh, shut up. Thanks for the beer, and let me know how he's doing, alright?"

"Sure."

"Especially if there's any... danger nights, yeah?"

"Of course," John lied smoothly and ushered Lestrade to the door. "Let us know the second you have a case he can work, alright?"

"I will. Bye, Sherlock."

"Bye, Greg, and thanks for these," came the response that had both men stopping and turning to stare at the detective, then back at one another.

"The second I get something, I swear I'll call," Lestrade said seriously.

"Please do. See you then."

John did the dishes and straightened the kitchen while Sherlock solved the first case. He took to his chair and pulled out a new book, one he had been avoiding reading because Sherlock- when he wasn’t distracted- had a habit of shouting out the endings to him, while Sherlock solved the second. Just before midnight, he realized he hadn’t heard a single noise from Sherlock in a while.

He was slumped over the coffee take, sound asleep.

John took a moment to appreciate Sherlock’s sleeping form. He looked… young. Peaceful.

No, that wasn’t quite right. Even in sleep, Sherlock didn’t look peaceful, but John hoped that he could get Sherlock to stick to this sleep schedule of his. John let him go for a few minutes before he stood with a sigh. As much as he wanted Sherlock to sleep, he didn’t want to listen to him bitching when he woke up with a crick in his neck.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, just loud enough to wake Sherlock up. “Come on, time to get to bed.”

“But… there’s cases…” Sherlock mumbled.

“You won’t be able to solve them if you are sleeping on the paperwork, now will you? Come on, up you go…”

Once Sherlock was tucked into bed, he grumbled a bit. “This is so inconvenient.”

“You get used to it, Sherlock. You’re only human after all.”

“Boring.”

“Go to sleep.”

Before John made it out of the room, Sherlock’s breathing became deeper, a telltale sign of sleep. A firm hand and persistence. That’s all it took.

Of course, it didn’t last long. Lestrade showed up to the flat a week later, so stressed out, John winced in sympathy when he opened the door.

“Triple homicide, second one this week. We could use some help.”

Sherlock was dressed and in a taxi so quickly that John was surprised he managed to grab his gun.

“It’s probably not appropriate to be as excited as you are while we’re on the way to the scene of a triple homicide, you know,” John said, trying and failing to hide his own excitement.

“John, my first case back, and there are _three_ bodies. Three! It’s better than Christmas. God, I hope it’s bloody. I hope it’s clever. I want this one to go on for a while.”

John shot the cabbie an apologetic smile, but without missing a beat replied to Sherlock, “Just remember, no laughing at crime scenes.”

They were quiet for maybe 5 seconds before their composure broke and they were laughing.


	5. Charity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually posting two chapters tonight. Two! That mean there's only one chapter left in Saint. I hope you enjoy!

John rarely took actual time for himself. He worked at the clinic, looking after the sick and injured. He cooked food that Sherlock didn’t eat, did the dishes Sherlock said he would do, cleaned up the messes Sherlock made, and kept the idiot from killing himself. His occasional trips to the pub with Greg were more for emotional support for his friend while he worked his way through the post-divorce emotional turmoil he was experiencing. He had even cut back on those outings to keep an eye on Sherlock for the previous 9 weeks, but enough was enough. It had been 9 weeks since Sarah left him (rightfully so, he’d be willing to add), 9 weeks since he had spent time with anyone outside of a platonic setting.

So he resumed his pre-Sarah habits. He had plenty of first dates that tended to end with a chaste kiss on the cheek and a semi-friendly goodbye and absolutely no promises for a second date. He would trudge home to Sherlock and bitch.

How hard was it to find a woman who actually appreciated being taken out on a date by someone who wasn’t an asshole? Did he talk about his job too much? Did he not listen enough? He wasn’t expecting sex (though that would have been nice), he wasn’t expecting anything, really. He just wanted some sort of company that wasn’t wrapped up in ego and covered in unrequited sexual tension. (Though half his dates consisted of that anyway. Perhaps he had a type and just wasn’t aware?)

Despite that, he still chased after Sherlock. He was injured several times trying to protect Sherlock from whatever criminals they were chasing or even himself depending on how stupid he was being. It was a constant cycle of adrenaline high and crash with nowhere to put the stored up energy or the frustration.

But tonight was going to be different. They had just solved another murder, and John managed to snag a second date. He bought a different cologne, wore a jumper that didn’t look like it had gone through the war with him, and chose a restaurant and play that would set the tone for romance. He even brought her flowers.

“Felicity!” he said with his best smile when she opened the door.

“John, it’s good to see you again,” she said. There was something off. He knew there was something off. It was something in the way her smile didn’t quite meet her eyes.

But he was just being paranoid, right?

The restaurant was perfect. There was a candle on the table ( _don’t think about Angelo’s, don’t think about Angelo’s_ ), soft music playing in the background, and food that was to die for. The play was good, even John thought so, but there was that nagging feeling that something was going to go wrong sitting in his stomach.

At intermission, she told him she wanted to leave. His pulse spiked a moment, thinking that they might actually go back to her flat or something because surely he wasn’t that big of a fuck up. He did everything right, everything-.

“It’s not you, it’s me. I like you, it’s just… There’s someone else. I’m sorry.”

And she was gone.

He caught a taxi alone back to Baker Street, craving the whisky that he had stashed in the kitchen for nights just like this. Imagine his surprise when it was already sitting on the table in the living room.

"Why is there whisky on the table?"

"Because you prefer it to beer when you've had a particularly trying day."

"Yes, but I wasn't even home yet. How did you know to set it out? Were you hoping I'd fail?"

"You didn't fail, John. I knew what was going to happen and prepared accordingly."

"You knew she would ditch me at intermission? Why didn't you fucking say something?"

Sherlock’s entire demeanor shifted, going from relaxed to tense and angry in a moment.

"I didn't know it would be intermission precisely, but yes, I knew the second date wouldn't work out for you. I didn't tell you that I noticed the text messages from her when you loaned me your phone the other day. I didn't tell you that it was clear she was interested in someone else. I didn't tell you that her IQ was barely high enough to keep a child intrigued, let alone you. I didn't tell you anything because every single time I've warned you about a date, you brush me off. You don't listen. I'm sorry that I finally started listening to the things you wanted from me and backed off, but please, John, don't take your anger at her out on me because I was willing to sit here and drink with you to make you feel better and you know how I feel about the way alcohol slows my thinking down. Now, take off your damn coat, sit down, and tell me all about how much of a rotten bitch she was to you so I can act surprised like I always do."

"Oh, don't try to pretend like you actually care. We both know that you aren't capable of that. Just fuck off."

The words were out his mouth before he could stop them, and he was out of the flat without a backward glance.

Just once, he wanted sympathy. He wanted someone to care about him instead of him caring about them. He wanted to receive, not give, because he wasn’t entirely sure how much left of himself he _could_ give.

But that was selfish, he knew, and wrong to boot. Sherlock always sat there- perhaps not listening, but was _there,_ when he needed to vent after his failed escapades. The whisky out on the table was a kind gesture, as well as the two glasses. He remembered John’s fear of taking the same path as his sister and their father, didn’t want him drinking alone.

Didn’t tell him that Felicity was going to leave him in the middle of the theater because he wanted to give John a chance. He didn’t want to ruin it.

And that was kind, wasn’t it?

“Fuck,” John cursed, just as the rain picked up.

He was drenched and he felt like a total arse and this was not at all how he had wanted to spend his evening, but he had to admit that he kind of deserved it. He stopped under an awning (that didn’t really keep the rain at bay) to lick his wounds while he waited for the rain to clear.

Huddled into his coat and firmly tucked into his own self-loathing, John didn’t see Sherlock approaching. He only looked up when the rain stopped beating down on him.

"What are you doing here?" he spat. He really needed to work on the lashing out thing.

"I saw that you didn't have an umbrella. I was hoping to avoid you getting soaked through, but I was... well, it took me a minute to get myself together and come after you. By then, the rain had started."

"Don't pretend. You wanted to poke at me more. Rub in that my date was a failure, just like all the rest of them have been, and that you knew all along that it would be-."

"I wasn't trying to rub anything in, John. Contrary to what you seem deluded into thinking, I do actually have emotions. I care about you. You asked me not to interfere, so I didn't. I was only doing as you asked. I've been trying to be more compromising with you. I didn't even text you on these last few dates since you told me how much it bothers you. I've been making an effort. The whisky was just so you didn't have to fetch it yourself when you got home. The two glasses were because I know you don't like to drink alone. I was trying to do my best to make it hurt a little less. I must have misjudged my actions. I'm sorry for the miscalculation."

John’s shoulders slumped and he sighed.

"There's no need for you to apologize. I overreacted. I shouldn't have snapped at you. I know... I know you care. Gods. It wasn't even going anywhere with her. I knew it. I saw the signs, I just didn't want to believe them. I don't know why I try. I can never stay focused on them long enough to make a real connection. It's all so boring."

"Then why do you keep trying?"

_Because I know I’m never going to be able to have you._

"I don't know. Never mind. Can we get home now? I think I could use that drink."

He waited for Sherlock to push, but he didn’t.

Three glasses of whisky in, John decided to do something he had wanted to do for a long time- resting his head on Sherlock's chest (after telling Sherlock that his shoulder was far too bony, of course). If Sherlock complained, he could say he was drunk. That was all.

He drifted off to sleep there, only waking slightly when Sherlock adjusted to a position that was more comfortable for the both of them.

John could have sworn he heard Sherlock say, “You’re mine,” but that had to be a dream, right?


	6. Forgiveness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the final installment, hopefully within the next couple of days!

John Watson wasn’t a very forgiving person.

He had never quite gotten over how much of an asshole his father was. It probably had something to do with the fact that the only thing John Watson Sr. cared about was reaching the end of his next bottle, often times knocking people around in the process. It fell to John to keep him away from Harry and their mother, at least until he was 17 and his father finally had a few too many and went off an embankment.

And speaking of Harry and drinking problems, he loved her because she was his sister, but he never quite forgave her for taking the same path as their father. The first time he saw a bruise on Clara, he almost killed Harry. The second time, he convinced her to go to rehab. The third, well… let’s just say that Clara didn’t find her divorce lawyer all on her own.

Maybe it was the fact that he was a doctor, but substance abuse was something that he just couldn’t tolerate. Especially when someone was drugged against their knowledge.

(He forgave Sherlock because he was, well, Sherlock. He couldn’t exactly stay mad at him for anything. Not even the body parts in the fridge or the cocaine that had been on the table the day of The Incident. The bastard at Baskerville deserved to step on that landmine.)

Perhaps it was because he was a trigger happy, adrenaline addicted, ex-soldier who had seen more than his fair share of innocent lives taken in the name of freedom, but he had a particular hostility toward those who hurt people who couldn’t defend themselves.

The little old woman, blind and alone in her flat.

_Moriarty._

He was a spider, just like Sherlock said. He controlled a million different strands of a million different webs and paid no mind to the victims. To him, it was all a game, and he always came out on top.

More than anything, though, he could never quite understand how someone could just not care. He saw it in Afghanistan, soldiers firing without care of who they hit. Ends justifying means, nothing more.

Sherlock. The _machine._ It was a game to him as well, same as Moriarty. Two sides of the same coin.

So he left, walked out, because he couldn’t stay mad at Sherlock. He never could, but he had to get some air before he hit the man.

Of course he ended up wrapped in Semtex parroting Moriarty’s words at Sherlock, watching confusion and pain cross the detective’s face in short order.

He would never forgive himself for the things he said before he walked out.

Then Moriarty left, and returned, because he was fickle bastard who couldn’t be trusted with anything, and John looked at Sherlock.

Forgiving himself… John had never even considered the possibility, but something about being there with Sherlock… Well, everything seems possible with him.

_I’m sorry for everything I never said to you. At least we’ll go out together._

So he nodded and Sherlock lowered the gun to the bomb vest that was now across the pool. John watched him steady himself to take the shot, watched as Moriarty motioned for his snipers to take their shots, but nothing happened from either side.

He immediately forgave Mycroft for kidnapping him and being an all-around prat when his men swarmed into the room and got Moriarty to his knees.

"Can I have a moment with him, brother?" Sherlock asked, surprising anyone who knew both men with his use of the fraternal term.

"Not alone, no."

"Oh, that won't be necessary."

Sherlock walked over and took Moriarty by the hair, tilting his head back and forcing him to make eye contact.

"Come over to gloat, hm?" the man asked, his voice shaking in a manner that obviously upset him.

"No. There's nothing to gloat about. I just wanted to tell you that it might be a good idea, if you manage to get out of my brother's grasp alive, to tell your colleagues that interfering with my life is one thing. It's fine. I honestly don't think I could care less.

"But if you ever think that it is a good idea to come after the ones I care about again, I will take you apart, bit by bit. I will _end_ you. Is that understood?"

"Oh, has the little detective discovered that he does have a heart after all? How dull."

"No, that's where you're wrong."

He paused, then said something John wasn’t sure he would ever hear.

"Caring doesn't make you dull, it makes you painfully sharp. It makes you vicious. It makes you deadly. If I were you, I would thank Mycroft here for sparing your life for the time being. Goodness knows that I wouldn't have been nearly as kind without his interference."

Then he brought the butt of the gun against Moriarty’s head, knocking him out, and we were in a taxi on the way back to Baker street.

John asked him, twice, if he was alright without receiving an answer. "Sherlock, will you please answer me?” he snapped, taking his jacket off and hanging it next to Sherlock’s.

"What?"

"I asked if you were okay. You haven't said anything since we left the pool. You even paid for the taxi."

"Of course I'm fine."

Ah. John found himself thinking that Sherlock looked like he did after the woman left, like he had lost a toy.

"Are you sure? Moriarty... he was... well, he was a challenge for you, right? A game? You enjoyed it well enough, and now it's over..."

That got a response.

"Are you asking if I'm upset that Moriarty, the man who just strapped a-," Sherlock’s voice cracked, "-a bomb to your chest is, at this very moment, being processed by MI6?"

John simply shrugged. "You like interesting things. He kept you interested. Nothing has that kind of hold over you."

"You really are an idiot."

Whatever sympathy John had mustered vanished. "What? What was that?"

"I said you're an idiot. Or blind. One or the other."

"What on earth are you getting at? I know I'm nothing like you, all formulas and deductions and knowledge of just about everything, but I'm a doctor for fuck's sake. I'm not stupid, and I would really like it if you stopped treating me like I was! What are you doing?" The last part came out as more of a strangled noise than anything else.

As he was talking, Sherlock had stepped closer and closer, backing him against the now closed door to their flat.

"I'm never letting you out of my sight again."

"What?"

"Stop saying that. You aren't deaf. Stupid, yes. Blind, yes. But I don't mean those things intellectually. You are more brilliant than most of the people I have associated with in my life. I wasn't expecting it when I first met you. I thought you would be easy to figure out, a puzzle with an obvious solution that would take maybe a week or two to work through. Then you shot a man. I upped the figure to a month. I thought the body parts would be too much, or maybe the poisoned milk. Nope. Perhaps stealing your gun would have been enough to break you? No, not that either. I ruined at least 80% of your relationships, took you on several illegal searching expeditions through peoples' homes, drugged you in Baskerville, got you kidnapped by a madman, and yet... here you are. What does that say about me, John? What does it say about you?"

Before he could make sense of his thoughts, Sherlock continued. "It says that I was wrong, John. Do you know how rare that is? And you... It says that you are extraordinary. My entire life has been boring, and then you were here. You never did what I expected. You always threw me off. How can you possibly be stupid enough to think that Moriarty was the only one who had ever enthralled me? Did you really miss the way I paid close attention to you? Did you really not see it? I guess I can't really blame you. It wasn't until after that last date you went on, the one where you mistook my actions as deliberately cruel toward you, that I realized I never wanted you to be with anyone else. I wasn't just jealous anymore, I was greedy. I wanted you all to myself. I didn't expect that to work out, though. I didn't say anything, I kept it all to myself, because that was not something you needed. You, of all people, do not deserve someone as fucked up as I am.

"But seeing you tonight, John? With that vest and the fear in your eyes and the total trust you placed in me to end Moriarty by any means necessary? I can't handle the thought of anyone else having that. Please, John, please tell me you'll stay. I'm not much, I know, but I can try, I'm willing to try, just... please..."

John knew then that he was lost. He was hopelessly, madly, utterly in love with Sherlock Holmes. He would continue forgiving him for the body parts in the fridge and the jealousy and the petulance. For everything. But first he had to be certain that Sherlock meant it. He would not be able to forgive a lie like this.

"I thought you were married to your work."

"You've become a part of my work. I can't imagine solving a case without you anymore."

"That's doesn't mean anything."

"It means everything. I've never worked with anyone as closely as I've worked with you. I've never wanted someone to stay."

John looked at Sherlock, really looked. There was panic there, resting just under the surface, and his pulse was pounding in his throat. Honesty. Pure, honest emotion.

"Oh, you idiot," he half-breathed, standing on his toes to press his lips to Sherlock’s, keeping his eyes open just long enough to see the ever-so-rare shocked expression, and reveling in the fact that he could finally do this.

He was so happy, he even forgave Moriarty for kidnapping him. But only just.


	7. Chastity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deviates from the others where it's not an exact copy of the last chapter of Sinner, but I think it flows better with this choice. I also updated the tags for the story to include the rimming that takes place in this one, so if that's not your cup of tea, sorry about that.
> 
> I also have some ideas in the works for a few more installments in this story. The plot bunnies are multiplying, I just have to find a way (and the time!) to wrangle them up. Definitely bookmark/subscribe to this series because you'll probably see more from it in the future.
> 
> As always, you can find me on tumblr. xstarxchaserx.tumblr.com
> 
> And thanks for sticking with me through this mad adventure of mine. Every single one of your comments just... Man, they mean a lot to me.
> 
> \- Destiny

Sherlock Holmes was one of the sexiest men John had ever seen.

Make that _the_ sexiest.

It was in the sort of way that seemed effortless. He was tall, graceful, always sharply dressed. His eyes always seemed to tear right through you (probably because they were) and those cheekbones…

He also had a rather fine arse, but, come on, that’s a given. 

Since that night with the pool and the revelations, John had seen Sherlock naked more often than not. They didn’t take a case for an entire week after that, choosing to stay in the flat and cuddle- actually cuddle! It took 8 days for Sherlock to start fidgeting. John admired the way he tried so hard to stay put, so hard to stay in the flat like he assumed John wanted. 

But what John loved even more was to see Sherlock’s face light up when he mentioned there was a particularly interesting e-mail he had received from a client involving a locked room murder and a million quid life insurance settlement.

When they got back to Baker Street three days later, exhausted but ecstatic, the post case electricity flared with full force. 

Only there was nothing to stop them from acting on it this time. 

John ended up pressed against the door with Sherlock on his knees in front of him, doing things with his mouth that should have been illegal. It was such an incredible sight, looking down and seeing the dark curls and the light eyes looking back up at him. He didn’t last very long.

John’s favorite look of Sherlock’s, though, was when he let go. Those 30 seconds when his orgasm was approaching, when you could watch his brain shut down and give in to pure pleasure. It was exhilarating and humbling, knowing that Sherlock of all people trusted him to see that moment of weakness. 

They had more sex in the first month that they were together than John had had in the previous year and a half.

Until Sherlock got injured.

It was stupid, really. He was chasing after a suspect when the partner they didn’t know he had ran up from the side and slammed into Sherlock who lost his balance and fell. John heard the almost-scream of pain and didn’t hesitate before drawing his gun and firing two warning shots that made both of the suspects freeze. The sight of the gun was enough to keep them well behaved until Lestrade showed up.

Sherlock wasn’t exactly pleased with having to go to the hospital, but something was wrong with his leg and they had to find out what. Turns out that it was a second degree pull of the muscles in his groin and that he wasn’t allowed to do any physical activity for at least two months.

Two. Months.

It took about two days before John caught Sherlock trying to hobble to the kitchen to make tea for himself. He threatened to tie him to the bed if he didn’t behave.

It seemed to occur to both of them at the same time that two months of no physical activity meant that there would be no sex. Sherlock groaned in a different sort of pain and went back to his little nest on the couch. John brought him his tea and kissed his forehead, leaving him to his strop.

Two weeks passed, and John had already gotten two sets of cold cases from Lestrade for Sherlock to look through. They went through several cases from the websites, played a round of Clue that almost ended up with the Captain in the living room with the skull as the murderer, and Sherlock still couldn’t walk to the loo without being in a ridiculous amount of pain.

John finally convinced him to have a nice night, cuddled on the couch with a movie. 

That was quickly interrupted by Sherlock (who was laying with his head in John’s lap) placing his hand on John’s thigh. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it had been stationary, but he kept moving his fingers in patterns and swirls, inching closer to where John was getting increasingly harder…

“Stop it, Sherlock.”

“But-.”

“No physical activity.”

“It’s been two weeks!”

“Only six more to go.”

“But-.”

“Watch the movie.”

“He dies in the end.”

“It’s Sean Bean. He dies before the end.”

Sherlock huffed and went back to just cuddling, except for a slight nuzzle that was met with a thwack to the back of his head.

A month passed since the movie night, and Sherlock had become more insufferable by the day. It reminded John of the time when he was banned from taking cases from the Yard- all black moods and stagnation. 

“Come on, Sherlock. I know you enjoy Mrs. Hudson’s Yorkshire puddings. She even made the gravy from scratch. Just eat one. Please?”

“I don’t want any.”

“You haven’t had anything to eat all day. You need to keep your strength up.”

“I’m not a child, John! I don’t need you babying me.”

“I’m not trying to baby you! You need to eat something to help you heal.” Sherlock just huffed and burrowed deeper into the couch. “I don’t even know why I try…” John muttered as he stood to take the plate out to the kitchen.

“That’s a great question. Why do you even bother? You should just leave!” 

“Where the fuck did that come from?”

“You said it yourself. Why do you even try? This is me, John, and it’s not going to change. I’m not going to magically be made of rainbows and fucking butterflies and pleasantries like you want!”

“I don’t want that, I want you.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Please. I’m no good for you. I can’t even have sex with you, and as someone who has lived with you for as long as I can have, I know what your moods are like when you aren’t getting laid, so you may as well find someone else now instead of waiting and discovering that you find me repulsive further down the line anyway. Cut your losses while you’re ahead.”

“What the-?” John plopped onto the coffee table and ran his hand over his face. “Sherlock.” No answer. “Sherlock, look at me.”

Slowly, Sherlock rolled over. John saw that his eyes were rimmed in red as though he had been fighting back tears. His heart broke.

“Sherlock, I’m not in this for the sex. That’s just… a perk, really. I-I know I haven’t said it, because I thought you knew, but from the way you’re acting, I guess you really don’t. Sherlock, I love you. That’s not going to change any time soon, especially not because of something as stupid as you not being able to have sex. I’d be content never having sex again if it meant having you in my life. If that’s what this whole strop of yours has been about, I wish you would have just said something and I could have saved us both the headache.”

He had been looking at Sherlock’s hand where he had captured it in his own, avoiding Sherlock’s face out of shyness, but as the silence stretched on, he looked up.

Sherlock was staring at him with his mouth slightly parted, his pupils entirely dilated, and something akin to fear dashing across them. 

John recoiled immediately. “I’m sorry. Maybe… maybe that was too much, too soon. It’s only been a little while since we… got together. We haven’t even really declared a definition or anything, so I was just jumping in too fast. I get it. That’s okay. If you want me to leave-.”

“I love you too.”

John stopped. “Oh.”

“Idiot.”

“Oh.”

They sat in silence for a few moments. 

“Are you still offering dinner?” Sherlock asked.

“Are you going to eat it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’ll go reheat it.”

They ate dinner curled up next to each other on the couch watching more movies.

One more month passed. They watched movies, read books, talked about everything they could think of, and shared more than John thought possible, like how Sherlock wanted to keep bees eventually. They went through photographs and laughed and solved more cold cases for the Yard. John slowly saw the last of the tension around Sherlock dissipate. He looked younger, lighter, without the weight of the world he seemed to think he needed to carry on his shoulders. There were no masks, so disguises, just Sherlock.

John had never loved anyone or anything as much as he loved Sherlock, and he never saw that changing.

The day the doctor finally cleared Sherlock to return to regular activities so long as he stayed away from chasing criminals down alleys for the time being, they went on an actual date to Angelo’s. There was the candle in the middle of the table and a single red rose. When Angelo greeted John as Sherlock’s date, there was no jump to refusal. Instead, he took Sherlock’s hand on the table and beamed at him.  
 _Yes, he’s mine and I am his and isn’t he just…_

“Beautiful,” John whispered without meaning to.

“What is?”

“Hm?”

“You said beautiful. I was asking to what you were referring.”

“You. You’re beautiful.”

“John-.”

“I’m just stating a fact, is all. Oh, look, our food.”

They didn’t make it to dessert, probably because of John’s hand running along Sherlock’s thigh. Hell, they barely made it up the stairs before their clothes started coming off. It was vicious, buttons popping and nails digging in and- God- John had missed the feeling of Sherlock’s naked skin against his.

The tone changed when they got to the bedroom. John had Sherlock lay down on his front, eased off his pants, and started exploring Sherlock with a series of gentle touches. Fingertips trailing lightly over his shoulders, kisses feathered down his spine. Sherlock sighed, his entire body relaxing into the mattress, tensing only when he realized that John’s kisses weren’t going to stop at the base of his spine this time.

“Relax, Sherlock. Just relax,” John whispered before kissing lower. He gently parted Sherlock’s cheeks, nosing and kissing and lightly licking even lower. Just before he reached Sherlock’s opening, he paused to run his hands over Sherlock’s body, pulling a whimper of frustration from the man. John chuckled and, without warning, parted Sherlock’s cheeks again and placed a kiss directly on his hole.

Sherlock bucked slightly, cursing, but John held him in place while he explored just as slowly as he had been. He kissed lightly and with an open mouth, driving Sherlock slowly but surely insane. 

“Please, John-.”

John pushed his tongue just barely inside of Sherlock, delighted in the groan of a reaction he received, and started fucking Sherlock with his tongue until Sherlock was a complete mess. He was breathing heavily, fists clenched in the sheets, and a flush had crept its way across Sherlock’s entire body. John pulled away from him and kissed his way up Sherlock’s back, all while fumbling for the lube that they still had in the nightstand. He slicked up two fingers and pressed them both into Sherlock who keened under the onslaught.

“Oh, fuck, John. John. Yes. More, please, please…”

John added a third finger, fucking them in and out of Sherlock in the same leisurely pace he had been using all along. He brushed against Sherlock’s prostate at a fairly regular interval, keeping him just on edge, just on the verge of cumming, until he couldn’t take it anymore. It had been two months. Two long months. He wanted this to last, wanted to make Sherlock beg, cry, come apart. He wanted to see Sherlock stripped down to his core again. And, oh, when that happened…

“Fuck me,” Sherlock muttered into the pillow.

“What was that?” John said, punctuated with a gentle nibble to Sherlock’s ear.

“Fuck me! Please. Please…”

John removed his fingers slowly and patted Sherlock’s side so he would roll over onto his back. He reached up to help John put on the condom, stroking a couple of times until John batted his hand away and pushed so very slowly into Sherlock. He rolled his hips a few times, allowing Sherlock to adjust to the new sensation, before he surprised a yelp out of the detective.

He reached both arms under Sherlock’s back and hauled him up so he was virtually sitting in John’s lap. 

“What- what are you-?”

“You still shouldn’t push yourself too hard,” John replied, kissing Sherlock.

“But-.”

John cut him off by shifting a little so he was holding all of Sherlock’s weight and thrusting up into him

“Oh God,” Sherlock cried before burying his face into the crook of John’s neck.

“And it feels amazing.”

Sherlock laughed but it ended as a moan as John thrust up again. It took some adjusting, but John found a pace and position that suited them both, where John was able to lick and bite at Sherlock’s chest and neck, leaving marks that even the scarf wouldn’t cover.

They were both so close that neither lasted very long. Sherlock wrapped a hand around himself and coated both of their chests after just a couple of strokes. The contractions and sounds pushed John firmly over the edge himself.

He rolled them so he was on his back, still inside of Sherlock.

“I love you,” Sherlock said quietly, his mouth half pressed against John’s chest. It was the first time he had said it since the night John first told him about his feelings.

It made John’s heart hurt in a lovely sort of way.

“I love you too, Sherlock. Always.”


End file.
